


Demons Are a Girl's Best Friend

by DJNecrophilia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJNecrophilia/pseuds/DJNecrophilia
Summary: Its Lannister Vs. Stark in Hells Kitchen, and Sansa barely manages to escape her captivity in the basement of Joffrey Lannister. Under the streets of New York, she’ll find her savior in a bartender who might just be a bigger trouble magnet than her.





	1. Chapter 1

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Chapter 1:

—————————————————————-

She didn’t make a sound, she never did. Not as she limped aimlessly, in the rain, barefoot. Not as she froze to the bone, she can't remember the last time she felt warm. She managed to grab her leather jacket before scrambling for the door, but she’s still frozen, soaked to the bone. Just her luck it would rain. 

Her teeth chatter, ears ringing from the noise of traffic. Just her luck. She’s out just when Hells Kitchen comes to life at night, hopefully she'll be able to able to hide in the crowd. She could go home, but she knew that was the first place they would look for her, and she couldn’t be found. She wouldn’t, she’d die before she gets dragged back there. 

She peeks over her shoulder towards where she came before she rounds the corner. Sure enough, several figures stick to the shadows, three in a single file line. Her heart leaps into her throat, and thumps in her ears. She couldn’t keep her breathing quiet if she tried. She pants, eyes frantically scanning the street. There has to be a way to get away from them, she can escape from anyone, she just needs to be quick enough.

A girl her age is walking towards her, shopping bag in one hand, umbrella in the other, eyes pleasant. Yanking her hood over her head, she snags the girls arm, leaning in close to her as she changes her direction to match with the girls. Once she might have been embarrassed, to grab a random stranger. But she’ll do anything now. 

“Please, they’re following me.” She says, and her voice breaks. A tear slips from her eye, and the girl grabs her hand, leans in close to her with a smile, but eyes that betray her. Scared eyes.

“I’ll wave a taxi, But its going to be so fun!” The girl leans close to whisper, and then as smoothly as an actress, she begins a conversation with her about a pretend party they’ll never attend. She can't help but cry silently, with one hand over her mouth. She glances over her shoulder, and the three blonde-haired men in black are looking over the heads of the crowded streets. She chokes a sob, she’s lost them, if only for a moment. A taxi pulls up the them on the curb, and the girl helps her into the car, closing the door behind them and giving the driver an address across town. 

Both hands clasped over her mouth, she releases a guttural sob the moment the car merges with the others, taken her away to safety, into the oblivion where she can disappear and lick her wounds. 

The woman who saved her reaches out to her, pulling her against her chest and cradling her. 

“Sorry, her boyfriend cheated on her, you know how it is.” The woman lies to the taxi driver for her, and she does her best to muffle her cries with her hand. She’s dripping wet, rainwater all over the seat and the person who saved her. She keeps her eyes down, too afraid of being recognized, by her rescuer or anyone else. She’d be stupid to think she’s in the clear. 

She manages to calm herself down, get herself time to think while the taxi drives them north. She calms down enough for exhaustion to set in, and she’s tired enough to almost fall asleep on the woman warm shoulder, her arm around her shoulders, comforting her. The woman smells like an Abercrombie store and hairspray. When the taxi pulls up, she gets out before the woman can say anything about paying the taxi driver. 

“Hey! Come back!” The woman calls after, but she just walks faster toward a dark alley. 

She’s that asshole now, a lone wolf with no consideration for anyone other than herself. She ducks into the darkness, there isn’t enough time for pleasantries to strangers, but she will remember that woman’s act of kindness. She might even consider passing it on. Its quieter on the Northside, and her bare feet make little more sound than the wet slapping on asphalt. 

She knows this city like the back of her hand. She may not know the best place to grab a coffee, but she can find any bar or hidden spot. Or at least her father could, she leaned everything from him after all. The alley descends, an old subway access descending into the ground and out of the rain. The yellow light in the tunnel illuminates her surroundings, full of trash, cobwebs and mud. She shrugs off the soaked leather jacket, squeezing as much water out of it as possible and shaking it out. She wrings her filthy hair and scrubs her face with her hands, but she doesn’t stay for long. No one is around here now, but she can't be certain no one will walk by. She stalks further into the tunnels, and the sound of music and talk echoes down a warmly lit hall. She sighs, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivers. 

The bar is one that she’s only ever heard of. She was never one for bar-hopping, preferring to remain safe and out of the public eye. But now it felt like a haven, and as she pushed open the ancient door and stepped into the warm pub, she relaxed. The place was tacky, with old victorian crushed red velvet wallpaper and cold molding, but the lantern style lights cast a warm and shadowy light over the place. It was busy, busy enough for no one to care then she stumbled in. People sat at tall tables, and some even gathered around a karaoke stage where a tiny man sang along to a glam-metal song she’d never heard before. She pats her pockets and almost faints when she feels her wallet, still fat with all the cash she stole before getting caught. 

She almost makes to leave, before she glances at the bar and thinks of her money. There’s no way she’ll be able to sleep, but if high school taught her anything, drinking might make it easier for her to curl up in a dark tunnel somewhere and sleep until she wakes up, and then sleep longer. Exhaustion becoming stronger than her strength, she makes her way to the bar, finding an open seat and climbing up into it. She’s starting to feel people’s eyes on her, and she pulls her hood further over her head. No one looks directly at her, but she knows they’re watching. Maybe coming here wasn't the best idea after all, but she's thirsty and tired. It wont do her any good to pass out of exhaustion somewhere, and she thinks she can smell mozzarella sticks...

“What can I get ya.” She snaps out of her reverie just to cast her eyes down to avoid looking at him. The bartender, she has to remind herself, he doesn't know her, but she won't make eye contact anyway. She fishes her wallet out of her pocket and puts her fake ID on the counter, ordering an Irish Whiskey and finishing it in two swallows when it comes. She coughs once, but screws her eyes shut. She peeks up at the TV playing behind the bar, glances over the shiny bottles on their mirrored shelves. She pushes the glass away. When was the last time she drank? She never used to be a drinker, no time to start like the present. 

She motions for the bartender again, only speaks when she see’s his shadow in the shining reflection of the bar. 

“A stein.” She says, keeping her voice low, and he turns away and returns with a glass of the amber liquid. Even though the place is full, no one is ordering drinks, they talk, likely already drunk, considering how late it is. She takes several deep swallows of the beer, and wipes her mouth with the back of the sleeve. Taking a deep breath, she scans the whole place, finding no blondes watching her among them. She cracks her neck and looks back forward, eyes falling on the bartender, who is staring right back, looking over his shoulder at her. She can’t keep shock and fear out of her expression, but can at least fight it when he turns on his heel and leans over the bar near her. The moment he moves, her heart stops. 

Fuck. She knows him, but he doesn't seem to recognize her. Sandor Clegane, he used to work for…for them. But he doesn’t seem to recognize her when he leans closer to speak, low in his throat. 

“You fall in the river or something?” He rasps, and she scowls at him, glaring while she snatches her beer away from his elbow and takes another deep swallow, putting it back closer to herself than him. His face could belong to no other, half burned, purple and black scars near his smirking mouth. She never though it could smirk, she’d never seen him smile before, even if it was haughty. Something is different about him now, maybe its how long his hair has grown, combed over the scars instead of cropped short for everyone to see clearly. She flushes as if on command, everything made her blush, she hated that about herself. Especially right now, when all she really felt was hate. 

“No, I didn’t thank you.” She retorts, and he laughs, turning away from her to look at the TV screen where a hockey game plays. One fist clenched under the counter, and the other around her cup, she drinks quickly. Of course she has to run into someone she knows here. Not three hours after escaping and she's already stumbled on a familiar face. She'd may as well turn herself if he recognizes her. The faster she gets out of here the better, she doesn’t have much time before he might recognize her, but she doesn't want to raise suspicion by bolting. 

His eye slides towards her while she’s preoccupied with her drink and listlessly listening to her surroundings. Familiar, but she’s hard to place. No matter who she is, she looks sick and in need of a good meal and some sleep. Her skin looks grey and her eyes are wide and flick around constantly, watching. She's skinny and gaunt, face sunken strangely, like she's been ill for months. Not to mention she looks like she jumped in the river. He notices when she nears the end of her drink he stops with another customer to take a drink of whiskey, and looks back at her. People like her wander in here every once in a while, but he usually ignores them, lets them have their drinks and go as quickly as possible. Usually he’d give them their space, but something about her strikes a chord with him. Then it hits him, and his knees just about buckle. 

All he can do is fill her another glass of beer and bring it to her. She looks up at him suspiciously, then her eyes widen in alarm again when he folds his hands and leans close to her, whispering in her ear. 

“How are you here, alive.” He speaks so softly, and pulls away to look her in the eyes. Her alarm is still there, he can see her eyes shake and struggle to focus as she starts to panic. She moves to leave, but his hand seizes her wrist, squeezing the bones so tight it almost hurts. She whimpers. 

“Please.” She chokes, and her hand snaps out, clawing at his. She’s desperate, and her fingernails dig into his skin, he doesn’t think she notices she’s doing it. 

“Joffrey had you chained. Your family thought you were dead over a year ago…” He whispers, still caught in disbelief. Rumors she was alive were dismissed as lies, lies meant to hurt and torture her family. No one believed them, only fools believed them. She shakes her head, a wild chunk of her wet hair falling in her face, but she pushes it back behind her ear before anyone can see the color, but he sees. 

“Sansa, what are you going to…” He clears his throat and peers around. She drains her glass with a sputter, retracting her hand and wrapping her arms around her stomach again. “This place is crawling with Lannisters, they have birds everywhere.” He whispers, and she just shakes her head more, smoothing a hand over her hood nervously. She’s breaking down, he can tell, but before he can try to say anything else, the door opens again, directly in his line of view. 

“If you tell anyone i’m here, I’ll..” She starts, but she turns and sees what he does. Blondes, in black suits. She whips back around, knuckles white on the back of the chair. Sandor moves to the left, to the shotgun kept under the bar. He’s not the only one who notices the intruders, others in the pub tense immediately when they see. They’re not in Stark Territory, its not uncommon for Lannisters to show up, but not here, never here. 

They’re here for Sansa, he knows and she knows too, her eyes peer around her, for a familiar face, for help. She won’t find one, but the men here share the same enemy as her. He knows there are fingers on triggers without needing to see. If she's smart, she'll sink down where she stands and hope they don't fill her with bullets. 

“Don’t try anything, we don’t want to hurt you.” One of the suits comes up to Sansa from behind, barring his teeth knowing at Sandor. Fucking Lannisters, he just can’t seem to shake them off. She struggles away from his grasp with a scream, and shouts rise up in the bar. 

Before Sansa can register, a gun fires ebhind her, and she punches her assailant as hard as she can. A solid right hook crumples his nose with a crunch, and she climbs onto the seat where she was sitting moments ago. Everyone in the bar is caught in a jam as they make for the door, but more men in suits push in against those trying to escape, Semi’s are drawn and Lannisters are shouting for submission. Before she can crawl over the bar to hide, gunshots pepper the crowd, and she’s caught in the shoulder. 

Pain blossoms in through her arm and chest, and she crumples, slipping and falling over the bar. She hits the ground, head first at a strange angle. She doesn’t make a sound as her world fades to black, she never did. And she won't now, not even if she tries.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Sansa Stark

—————————————————————-

She coughs herself awake, and the action immediately rips at the stitches in her shoulder, releasing a new stream of blood and pain. She breathes heavily, forcing herself into consciousness as she takes in her surroundings, finding herself alone. She relaxes momentarily, confusion settling over her. She sits as still as she can, listening for what feels like a painfully long time. She's releived to hear no one nearby, and allows herself to breathe easy. 

Her wet clothes are gone, replaced by a soft, clean-smelling t-shirt that’s several sizes too big, and a blanket covering her legs. She wiggles her toes, and feels too-big socks on her feet. She tries to move to sit up, letting one of her legs slide heavily off the edge of the couch and to the floor, but cringes at the various pains that shoot through her body at the movement. She’s sore, and exhausted, and the blood from her ripped stitches is getting on her t-shirt. Her head pounds, and her neck protests when she lifts her head from the pillow. She moves her other leg to the ground, sock feet on the cold floor. The instant she’s vertical, she’s caught in a wave of nausea that makes her head spin. Sansa crumples forward, eyes screwed shut as she gags, but there’s nothing in her stomach to vomit up. All she can do is dry retch while her stomach cramps. 

When her head clears, she takes in her surroundings. The place is bare, and small despite its high ceilings and hardwood floors. An unmade bed is pushed into one corner, and a neat kitchenette occupies the other. It’s a mans home, she knows this on first glance. There’s nothing there that doesn't serve a purpose, no decorations to make an illusion of a home. 

Sansa’s eyes fall on the coffee table in front of her, so full of things. There’s medical equipment, food wrappers, pens, paper, empty cups and used plates. And a gun, oh, two guns. A shotgun and a smaller handgun are half buried under everything on the table, and now she notices them everywhere. Leaning against the nightstand, on the kitchen counter, a barrel poking out from behind a chair. She folds her hands tightly in her lap, nervousness only increasing as she desperately tries to remember how she got here. She’d escaped, fled across town, and tried to hide out in an underground bar. Its the void between the bar and wherever she is now that makes her nervous. 

Then a toilet flushes. 

She jumps, snatching the nearest handgun, a revolver, and cocks it quickly, aiming at the hallway corner where the sound came from. A door opens and closes, someone clears their throat. Her bleeding shoulder aches painfully, and she sags, desperately trying to keep the gun up and aimed, but she’s losing energy fast, and her nervous tension is making her head pound and her eyes water.

Sandor appears around the corner, but he stops in his tracks when he see’s the revolver she holds. 

“Put the gun down, girl.” He warns, and she tries to shake her head, but the pain of the motion makes her whole arm spasm. She fails to aim at him as he crosses the room in a quick few steps, snatching the gun right out of her hands and unloading it, pocketing the bullets. 

“How did…” She starts, but he interrupts her. 

“You ripped your fucking stitches, now i’ll have to do them again.” He grumbles, stepping over the coffee table and making to grab one of her ankles. She kicks at him, feeling like she’s giving herself whiplash. 

“No!” She cries, her throat is dry, and she’s barely able to scramble away from his reach, huddling at the far end of the couch. 

“Calm down!” He barks immediately, but he softens when he looks at her. She’s terrified, breathing deep and staring right at him with wide eyes and a clenched jaw, hands clenched into fists. Guilt hits him, he left her once, he owes her help and a little fucking sympathy. He sighs, and motions for her to lay down again. She eyes him shrewdly, and doesn’t move, but she does relax, and her eyes droop. Now that he’s looking at her in the daylight, she looks sick, deprived of food and the sun. Her hands are bruised and there are deep shadows under her eyes. He waits for her to speak, settling down on the floor, trying to look casual and avoiding looking directly at her. 

“Where are my clothes?” She asks softly, wary eyes never leaving him. 

“I’m washing them, they were too filthy to put on my couch.” He says shortly, breaking their momentary eye contact with her and looking down. It’s not that he wanted to undress her, but she was genuinely filthy, and she was shot through her jacket and clothes. He figured it would be better to get the bullet out while she was unconscious than make her wake up and have to feel it. She quakes with anger, glaring at him until her face turns red. He gives her time to speak, but she does nothing but glare.

“What? You rather I left that fucking bullet in you shoulder, and wait for you to be awake when I cut it out?” He grinds out slowly, and she flinches, but glares all the same. She turns her whole body away from him, her anger and adrenaline giving her enough energy to feel alert now. 

“But you won’t hurt me.” She says, softly enough that he thinks she’s talking to herself for a moment. He’s still avoiding her eyes, looking at the floor, the wall, the things littering the coffee table. She wishes her eyes would well up, that her throat would choke and she could sob, but there's nothing, she’s soundless. 

“No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.” She testily stretches her legs out again when he says that, hands pulling the hugely oversized t-shirt down to her knees when she wriggles to lay flat, supine on a cushion. She’s still panicking, and watching him out of the corner of her eye as he roots through the contents of the messy coffee table for a small medical kit. She hates bleeding, and if being uncomfortable for a few minutes is what it’ll take to get stitched up, she’ll do it.

He curses under his breath the whole time he tries to thread the needle, and Sansa cringes at his clumsiness. She could probably do a better job sewing herself up, but she trusts her shaking hands even less than Sandor's clumsier ones. 

She flinches again when he moves suddenly, turning back towards her. 

“Sit still.” He grumbles, uncomfortable with the way her eyes are fixed on him, wide and fearful like a wild animal. He inches closer, sure to keep his body as far away from her as he can, considering he’s stitching her up. She pulls her loose, dirty hair away from the wound, exposing some of her neck and the bloody collar of the shirt. The small part of her neck that’s visible is purple, but he knows it will start to turn more colors soon. 

When she tenderly tries to peel the collar of the shirt over her shoulder to expose the wound, the small movement makes her inhale sharply when the dried blood pulls away with the fabric. Sandor does it for her, feeling like he needs to apologize for every accidental brush of his fingers against her skin. As quickly as he can, he picks the ripped stitches out of the small slit on her shoulder where he had to cut her open to pull the bullet out. She screws her eyes shut and grits her jaw, wanting to kick her legs, the sensation of the thread being pulled from her aching skin making her irritated and squeamish. Slowly, he makes one stitch, and a second. For good measure, he puts a bandage over the cut this time, hoping it’ll keep from bleeding on her clothes. He wishes he'd taken a first aid class at some point. 

“If you rip your stitches again, you can re-do them yourself.” He says, with more malice than he intended. She responds by nodding weakly, her eyes closed and face grey. He sits back on his heels, tidying up the scattered medical kit before tossing the blanket back over her legs. 

“What happened?” She asks, and he pauses. His eyes slide towards her warily, and snap away again when he notices she’s still watching him. He just shrugs. 

“You know more than me.” He tells her, and she purses her lips in annoyance. She knows he understands what she's asking, he's just being difficult. 

“I mean, how did I get hurt? How did I get here?” She asks, and he sighs. 

“You tried to climb behind the bar, but they shot you before you got over. You fell on your head right next to me.” He says shortly, not wanting to give her too much detail for now. She was unconscious as soon as she hit the floor, and he didn’t think twice about dragging her out the back door at the bar and booking it to safety. He hadn’t even noticed she’d been shot until he was halfway home, and her blood had dripped down the front of his jacket. 

“And you brought me here?” She asks, and he nods, standing and moving around the room, picking up trash and tidying up in her line of vision. He suddenly feels angry, and stands up quickly, not wanting to talk to her any longer.

“Thank you.” She says softly, and he only nods once in acknowledgment before going back to kicking his boots into the closet. Sansa lies back into the pillow and tugs the blanket higher over herself. She really is exhausted, and she lets her eyes drift closed when Sandor starts cleaning his kitchen. He makes enough noise doing dishes for her track where he is. Her new stitches are sore, pulsing with hot pain with every breath. But the skin feels tight, and the pressure of the dry bandage feels soothing. She relishes the feeling of being left alone and unwatched. Sandor doesn’t say anything, he just shuffles noisily around the apartment. She wonders if he’s being noisy intentionally, but she’s glad he is, and she falls into a light sleep. 

When she stirs again, the room is dim and cold. Outside, the sun has gone down and Sansa feels a lump of fear wedge itself in her throat. She lies still for a few minutes, listening for any movement in the apartment before she moves her head to take a look around. All the lights are off, and she cringes when she catches a whiff of herself when she moves. She could really use a bath, in bleach. She smells like she hasn’t properly showered or used a bathroom in months, and for the most part, she hasn’t. 

She sits up when she’s sure she’s alone. She doesn’t feel nausea anymore, and the headache and disorientation have subsided somewhat. There's a folded note on the now cleared coffee table, and beside it a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. She takes two, and drains the glass of water. She stares at the yellow note, torn and folded roughly in half. For a moment, she dreads opening it, but the longer she sits in silence, and the surer she is alone, the more her fear ebbs away. She picks it up gingerly, scanning the note quickly. 

Went to work, be back at 3am.   
Call if somethings wrong

His phone number is scrawled underneath the message, and she sags in relief at its briefness. She doesn’t have a cell phone, but on the far end of the room, she can see a phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen. Slowly, she tries to sit up. The nausea has passed, and the pain that was sharp in her shoulder before is now an ache that refuses to be ignored. Every time she moves or takes a breath, she’s conscious of the pain and strain on her stitches, and the now gnawing hunger in her stomach. 

As far as she can tell, she’s alone in Clegane’s bare apartment. She takes strange comfort in his actions now, he must trust her, to leave her alone in his place. The freedom of it feels strange, and she just sits for a while, looking around her with a strange sense of calm. The apartment isn’t quiet, outside there must be a city street, she can hear the cars, sirens and the regular bustle of the city. She has hours to herself, she hopes, before Sandor returns, and she’s determined to get to the bathroom. She pushes herself to her feet slowly, cringing when her legs cramp and her head spins, lightheaded at being suddenly vertical. She grits her teeth, and steadies herself against the arm of the couch she was lying on. She takes her time, letting the feeling return to her sleeping feet, and her stomach to settle. After a few minutes, she takes a step, and finds it’s not so painful anymore, as long as she keeps her back and shoulders as still as she can. 

Slowly, she hobbles down the hallway, finding the bathroom is the only door at the end. It’s clean and sparsely occupied by items, like the rest of the apartment. A lone toothbrush on the counter, a bar of soap, three towels folded on a shelf above the toilet and another slightly damp one hanging from a hook. 

She uses the toilet, and struggles for a few minutes to figure out how to get the shower to turn on. She sits on the counter while she waits for the water to heat up. She turns to look at herself in the mirror, for the first time in…she doesn’t remember anymore, how long its been since she looked at herself. Her own appearance doesn’t surprise her, she expected herself to look worse, but she still barely recognizes the person looking back at her. She looks old, her face is sunken and tired, lips peeling from being chapped for months, her hair stringy and dull. She turns away, not wanting to look at the stranger anymore. The pulling in her heart means she’s sad, but she still can’t cry, she wishes she could.


End file.
